


Christmas Capers

by okapi



Series: Many Times, Many Ways (the Christmas fics) [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Advent Calendar, Christmas, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Alternating, cases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-05 02:38:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 15,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16802035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: 'Tis the season for mistletoe murders and reindeer hit-and-runs!Case-themed Johnlock Advent calendar. Ficlets. Fluff. Hurt/comfort. All chapters stand alone.For MissDavisWrites' Advent Ficlet Challenge 2018.





	1. The Murder Tree.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the first day of December, John arrives home to a decorated tree and no Sherlock.
> 
> Prompt: holiday décor.

John never expected the unexpected, so when he arrived at the Baker Street flat on the first evening of December and discovered a fully-decorated Christmas tree in the sitting room, he was surprised.

He was certain that the tree, a handsome Nordmann fir more than two metres tall, had not been in residence when he’d left that morning for the surgery.

“Sherlock?”

When there came no reply, John wondered if the world’s only consulting detective was practising his mastery of disguise. He stepped closer to the tree and peered into it.

“Sherlock?” he asked tentatively.

The tree said nothing, and John’s cheeks warmed.

Embarrassment, however, quickly gave way to curiosity.

“Are those tiny bottles of poison?” he asked the darkened room.

John switched on the lamp and confirmed his suspicion.

“Not your ordinary fairy lights, unless your fairy is one who likes its almonds very bitter,” he mused.

There were, John noted, conventional ornaments, globes of silver and gold, hung on the tree, and perhaps, when the whole display was lit, there might even be conventional fairy lights, but conventionality, as befitted anything gracing the interior of 221B Baker Street, was a decidedly minor theme.

John reached out a hand.

“Revolver,” he said as his fingertips brushed the business end of a small-scale, bright, shiny, silver version of the genuine article.

He touched another unconventional ornament, this time with more care. “Knife.” He tilted his head and pressed his lips together, then added as he drew his hand away, “Quite sharp.”

He was momentarily distracted by the string of clear stalactites which ran diagonally from left to right through the middle of the tree. The pattern was clear, short, long, short, long, but one was missing.

John’s eyes travelled southward. Of course, the missing icicle was impaled through the heart of an elf, who laid sprawled three boughs below, his artistically-render expression conveying astonishment and agony. 

John briefly noted a coil of rope and a candlestick, but his attention was soon drawn to the box, or boxes, for there were, he counted, five of a kind inserted into the Nordmann fir at varying heights.

John picked the one nearest to him and leaned in for a closer inspection.

Inside the box was set a miniature room, like a single chamber of a doll’s house, but this little scene was not a tea party.

Not at all.

It was bathroom. A nude female figure lay in the tub with her head below the facsimile water. A male figure was hunched at one end with his hands gripping the female’s ankles.

John recognised it at once.

“The Brides in the Bath,” he gasped.

Indeed, the tiny tableau, down to the minutest detail of soap and flannel and burgeoning cyanosis on the victim’s lips, was a reproduction of an early twentieth century bath and one of Britain’s most notorious murderers and bigamists, George Joseph Smith.

Understanding for John was less like a lightbulb suddenly illuminating and more like then falling of a row of dominoes.

He flew to another box, a bloody East End diorama.

“Whitechapel. Oh, Sherlock. If there are Brides in the Bath and Jack the Ripper, there has to be…”

John hunted.

“Doctor Crippen!” he exclaimed with undisguised satisfaction when he found the box which showed a distinguished physician in the midst of burying his wife under the brick floor of a basement.

**BEEP!**

**Coroner is wrong. Off to Abbas Parva to prove it. Return in 3 days. SH**

John blinked at the screen. He never expected the unexpected, but he was singularly adaptable to the unusual, so he did not text back ‘What about the bloody Murder Tree?’

He simply shrugged.

**Be safe. JW**

* * *

Four days later, John was having beans on toast for lunch when he heard Sherlock’s tell-tale bounding up the stairs.

“Just in time,” announced Sherlock as he set his holdall on the seat of his armchair.

John was debating whether to ask the obvious question when Sherlock produced from his holdall a hard, plastic box. He set the box on the kitchen table and opened it and carefully removed a smaller box, which he set in the boughs of the tree at just the spot where, after three days study, John had determined was oddly bare.

“There,” said Sherlock. He threw the holdall under his chair and plugged in the lights of the tree just as Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway of the sitting room.

“Sherlock, were you expecting,” her voice dropped to a whisper, “the press?”

Sherlock had no time to respond for from behind Mrs. Hudson there burst forth no fewer than four persons, John counted, three with clipboards and one with a large camera, all talking at once.

“Oh, Mister Holmes, this is magnificent tree. You are going to make this year’s contest something special!”

“Well,” said Sherlock with a shrug of what John knew to be false modesty, “what can I say? I just got swept away by the Yuletide spirit.” 

The three with the clipboards fluttered between Sherlock and the trees like bees about a bed of especially nectarous flowers, taking notes and asking questions and buzzing with delight, while the photographer snapped shots.

“We’ll let you know if you win!” sang one as they departed.

“Oh, Mister Abergavenny?” called Sherlock. “A word, please.”

A middle-aged man with a bald head, florid face, and thick moustache muttered, “I’ll meet you in the car,” and stepped back into the sitting room.

Sherlock ushered the man toward the tree and laid a hand across the man’s shoulders.

“I don’t think you gave this one sufficient attention, Mister Abergavenny.” Sherlock indicated the box that John had just seen him place on the tree. “It’s of a man, a journalist, in fact, or at least someone who writes for a very famous newspaper, pushing his wife in front of a lorry while his girlfriend or, if you prefer the old-fashioned term, mistress is waiting ‘round the corner, waiting not to become his second wife, as she believes, but his third, because he’s not told her, or his victim, in fact, about the wife he pushed out of a window in Abbas Parva.”

John’s eyes widened, and he scanned his environs for a weapon. Finding nothing, he got to his feet and stepped closer.

The man turned red. His forehead broke out in beads of perspiration as he sputtered,

“Mister Holmes, I can’t see why…”

“Can’t you? It’s the season of giving, Mister Abergavenny, and I plan to give this little scene to my friend Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard, along with all, yes, all the evidence I collected in Abbas Parva. I suggest you make your way there yourself, right now, and confess. It will go much easier for you. Off you go. Good-bye. Happy Christmas.”

When the front door had slammed, John exclaimed, “Bloody hell!” Then he grinned. “Did you do all that,” he pointed to the tree, “just to catch a murderer?”

“Clever?”

“I’ll say! It’s marvelous. Those boxes are amazing. I mean, the detail is just phenomenal. But it must have taken you ages to put together even one.”

“I only had to do one, the Abergavenny murder, which I constructed while I was away. The rest of the boxes I picked up from my parent’s attic, where they’ve been gathering dust for years. I made them as a child. I created the other decorations, too, the ornaments from Cluedo games and the string of poison lights. I was always sneaking them onto my parent’s very proper Christmas tree and causing no end of ill will when they were discovered.”

“You’re extraordinary. Do you know my favourite part of it?”

“The icicle daggers.”

“Yes!”

“You live in hope for the right case, don’t you?”

“You know I do. Meanwhile, lunch?”

“Yes, starving.” Sherlock looked down at his mobile. “Oh, that was quick. Abergavenny’s already arrived at New Scotland Yard, ready to talk. Only coal in his stocking, I’m afraid, this year and many to come. And speaking of coal and ashes in one’s mouth, forsake your beans on toast, John, and let’s celebrate in style. Simpson’s?”

“Celebrate what, solving the case?”

“And that it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, everywhere you go!” sang Sherlock.

No, thought John as he reached for his jacket, he never expected the unexpected.

And that was just how he liked it.


	2. Fixed Point.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A break in a case gives Sherlock an idea for John's gift. 
> 
> Prompt: star. POV Sherlock.

Words.

Scrawled. Set and pressed in an antique type.

Map.

London.

Lines. Grids.

Black string connecting black dots.

Grainy images.

Old newspaper clippings. Headlines. Captions. Dates.

Images, soaking in a film noir solution, developing in shades of black and grey.

It didn’t make sense!

Why didn’t it make sense?

Why wouldn’t it make sense?

The words and lines and dots and images grew larger and larger until they overlapped with each other, until they drove out all that was not darkness.

No.

Not all.

A few precious words still glowed, bright and hot.

“What did you say, John?”

“I haven’t said anything for more than an hour, Sherlock.”

“I mean, what did you say earlier, at the crime scene?”

“I said a lot of things, Sherock. First, l called you a tit because you licked that sword...”

Sherlock growled impatiently. He raised his hands and closed his eyes; then he brought the whole of his mind to dwell on the luminescent calligraphy, focusing his attention like sun beam through a magnifying glass, straining to draw the light into a coalescence of words.

“Older?” he cried finally.

“Ah,” said John. “I said, ‘The older they get, the more human they seem to appear.’ But it wasn’t really me.”

Sherlock’s body tingled.

Yes, this could very well be it.

“Who?” he asked impatiently.

“Intendent Münster. He said it in _The Return_.” John held up the paperback. “He was making a comparison to his boss, Inspector Van Veeteren.”

Sherlock growled in frustration. “Who is older, who, more human?”

“Oh, Mountain gorillas.”

Sherlock didn’t need to close his eyes. He didn’t need to concentrate. He felt everything, the words, the map, the lines, the images falling into proper place.

“Ruhengeri.”

Then his coat was in one hand, his scarf in the other; his boots were pounding down the seventeen steps and a cry was ringing out in his wake.

“Sherlock, for Christ’s sake, wait!”

* * *

_Dear John,_

_I can always rely on your nerve, regardless of circumstance, but apart from that, you are a whetstone for my mind. You stimulate me. I like to think aloud in your presence. Your mental slowness irritates me sometimes, but that irritation only serves to make my own flame-like intuitions and impression flash up more vividly and swiftly. And sometimes, you hold the key that solves the whole case. I truly never get your limits._

_But even if you were none of these things and did none of these things, I would still adore you and be grateful that I am able to share my life with you._

_I would be lost without you. You are my fixed point in a changing age, and so, it’s only fitting that one bright speck in the firmament should be yours alone._

_Happy Christmas,_

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

Sherlock smiled as he slipped the sheet of stationary and a certificate from the United Kingdom Star Registry into a wide envelope. Then he sealed the envelope and hid it in the rear of his wardrobe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Return_ is by Hakan Nesser.


	3. Mind the Gap.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case at a shopping centre. 
> 
> Inspired by a funny video on the internet.
> 
> The prompt is: you better watch out.

“You better watch out,” said the window cleaner gruffly.

The window cleaner was a slim figure with long scraggly hair and a cap with a brim that was pulled down to his eyes. Tiny cords sprang from earbuds on either side of his head; they joined and disappeared inside a dark uniform shirt with a patch on the left of the chest which read ‘Addleton.’ Aside the window cleaner stood a cart with a mop, a broom, a dustpan, a bucket and an assortment spray bottles, rags and plastic bin liners.

The window cleaner hummed and popped his chewing gum as he made rubbing circles with a ragged cloth on the exterior of a shiny glass wall beside a shiny glass door of a shiny glass shopping centre three weeks before Christmas.

“You better watch out.”

The person to whom the window cleaner issued his warning was a mammoth Father Christmas, so tall and broad that one was forced to conclude that his red robe with fluffy white trim was custom-made, and one might even suspect that the throne upon which he sat inside the shopping centre groaned under the stress of him.

Despite his size, Father Christmas’ red cap was picture-postcard perfect. His flowing white beard and cottony eyebrows were perfect. His florid face was perfect. His button nose, perfect.

And the mobile pressed to his ear?

As incongruous as it seemed to the casual observer, it was actually quite perfect.

Because it ensured that this super-sized Santa Claus, this colossal Kris Kringle was as distracted as was required for him to believe the window cleaner’s polishing and to fail to realise that glass wall and the glass door, through which he passed on his break from the queues of tiny tots only fifteen minutes prior, were, in fact, no longer there.

And the bigger they are, Father Christmases included, the harder they fall.

And down he fell, right onto the freshly mopped floor.

The window cleaner sprang and so did quite a few representatives of New Scotland Yard, enough to turn the giant onto his back and pin him.

The window cleaner tore the red robe open.

Not a few gasps went up.

Affixed to the inside of the robe were dozens of leather handbags.

“I told you that you had better watch out, Meadows. Trafficking in stolen goods is a crime.”

“So is the way you clean a window, you bloody bastard!”

“I’m so very grateful for your help in resolving this matter, Mister Holmes,” said an official-looking gentleman in spectacles who had pushed his way through the crowd of police and onlookers. “There’s only one dilemma: we’re down a Father Christmas, and this fellow had three more hours on their shift. The queue’s enormous!”

The window cleaner smiled. “Not a problem.”

* * *

“You are the one who better watch out, Sherlock, if you don’t make this up to me in spectacular fashion when we get home.”

“Oh, stop your grumbling and come here. Your beard is crooked.”


	4. Frozen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a chilly case, Sherlock's not quite all right. H/C. Sherlock Whump. Sherlock POV.
> 
> The prompt is snowman.

“More soup? Tea?”

“Tea,” said Sherlock.

Had he said it? He hadn’t heard the word, though he’d wanted to say it, intended to enunciate it, squeezed his lungs, pushed forth the breath, and shaped his lips to produce it.

Yes, he must’ve said it, for the hard, ceramic rim of the mug was pressing into his bottom lip and a hand was at the back of his head, steadying him as the aromatic liquid trickled into his mouth. It rolled over his tongue and down his throat, sending out cascading ripples of warmth.

Strange.

His transport had recovered, was recovering, but his thoughts were still frozen.

“Sherlock, I do wish you’d tell me when you decide to embark on a dangerous scheme.”

“Did,” insisted Sherlock.

“Well, provide a bit more detail, then.”

“Time.”

There hadn’t been time.

Next time, I promise, John.

Something like that.

Once again, John fussed with the blanket—the outermost blanket, there were onion-like layers of them—drawing the sides tighter ‘round Sherlock’s body.

“I got your text when I was leaving the shops. I didn’t even stop by the flat.”

Sherlock’s mind conjured up an image of a bag of frozen peas and a box of pasta spilling out of a bag onto the snow.

“Did you do it yourself?”

“Kids.” Sherlock stammered clumsily over the word and licked his lips.

The mug and the tea returned.

Sherlock drank, willing the warmth to flow up, up, up along his brain stem.

“Ah, I do think I saw a pack of smug brats on my way into the Park. You must have paid them handsomely to work that fast.”

Sherlock grunted.

“More soup?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Tea?”

Sherlock shook his head again.

“Well, then, loo and bed. Or shall we make a bed here by the fire?” 

Darkness was better than firelight.

“Bed.”

* * *

John’s body pressed to his. John’s arms curled ‘round his head. John’s lips resting on his forehead.

Sherlock didn’t deserve this, this warmth, but he didn’t want to be anywhere else until his brain saw its way to thawing.

“The snow came fast and hard, eh?”

Sherlock tilted his head awkwardly and pressed his face to John’s neck.

Christ, he was a human furnace. How could one human being produce so much heat?

“If you hadn’t told those kids to put your scarf around its neck, I might not have realised, Sherlock. You were the largest, of course, but not the only one. It’s been snowing on and off for a week.”

Sherlock willed himself to retort,

“Knew. You’d. Turn. Up.”

John chuckled.

Christ, even the sounds he made were warm. What was that phrase Mrs. Hudson had once used?

You could spread him on toast.

You could spread John Watson on toast and gobble him up.

And wash him down with tea.

“You got your man, and Brooks got the goddamned shock of his life. He can revisit that magical moment over and over for the rest of his miserable life from his prison cell.”

“Yard.”

“Yeah, the Yard will take credit. They are good, but not one of them had the courage and creativity and resourcefulness to do what you did: bury yourself alive in snow just to be at the right place at the right time to catch a murderer.”

Sherlock huffed.

“Olaf.”

“Yeah, they’ll make jokes, but then what else is new? They know the truth. You caught a killer, got some justice for his victims’ families, and saved who knows how many people from future violence. He wouldn’t have stopped, that kind doesn’t, you and I both know that.”

John’s voice went soft. “Listen, love, what can I do?” He rubbed Sherlock’s arm. “The outside of you is fine, but the inside? I don’t know how to reach you to warm you up.”

Sherlock said nothing. He didn’t know the answer.

“Would this help?”

John put his mouth to the ridge of Sherlock’s shoulder and lick and kissed and bit suggestively as he rolled his hips.

Sherlock let out a high-pitched whine of alarm that instantly filled him with shame.

Really, any moment he wanted to stop acting like a complete idiot!

“Okay, okay. I’m not really keen, well, no more keen than usual.” John sighed. “Just an idea. I’m at a loss. You tell me. What do we do?”

Sherlock’s heart ached at the resignation and fatigue in John’s tone.

“Sleep?”

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s been a long day. Come here.”

John rolled onto his back, bringing Sherlock with him.

Sherlock tucked himself in the crook of John’s arm, slotting his body along the side of John’s.

They wouldn’t stay like this, of course, but for now, it was marvelous.

A hand came up and began gently stroking Sherlock’s hair.

Christ, that was good.

As good as the blankets and the soup and the tea and the fire.

Better because Sherlock knew what was going to come next.

“You’re extraordinary, Sherlock.”

Sherlock closed his eyes.

“Love.”

“You, too,” said John. “So much.” He drew Sherlock to him in a hard squeeze and kissed Sherlock’s forehead.

John released Sherlock and Sherlock settled back against John’s side. John resumed his petting, and soon Sherlock heard a noise that sounded like purring. Then he heard, or perhaps he felt, the cracking of ice. After a long while he said,

“Thank you very much, John, for everything.”

“Ta, love. G’night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm keeping this collection a T rating at highest, focusing on the cases, but if you'd like to know what naughty stuff the boys got up to in the morning, then check out [Mexican Cocoa](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604225/chapters/39553423), Chapter 129 of Cheers.


	5. Needle Point.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John picks up a new hobby. 
> 
> For two friends who inspire just by being themselves.

“I can’t believe it,” said John as he handed Sherlock a cup of cocoa and settled back into his armchair. He sipped from his own mug and glanced at the handsome fire. “Death by boarding card. Now, that’s a travel hazard no one ever warns you about.”

Sherlock took a sip and smiled. “It was a false boarding card that had been carefully crafted to look like the real one, but the edges of it had been purposefully sharpened and purposefully painted with poison. Among the items that Lestrade and his team collected from the raid of Morgan’s workshop were surgical knives and one practice card that accidently slipped behind a drawer.”

“But how did you even begin to suspect that it was Morgan?”

“Well, in the beginning, I wasn’t certain, of course, but if it was premeditated murder, I knew the killer had to have the kind of intimate knowledge that is only shared by people who have lived and worked and traveled together for a long time. Morgan knew her partner’s habits very well. It was easy for her to switch the boarding cards. It was easy for her to orchestrate a scene at the security gate that rendered her partner’s hands full and thus forcing her to hurriedly do what she often did when they traveled, that is, to put the boarding card in her mouth.”

“And cut herself!”

“And introduce into her own body the poison that killed her.”

“Even with knowledge and the crazy boarding card, it seems like relying on an awful lot of coincidences, Sherlock.”

“If it didn’t work, Morgan lost nothing. She had back-up plans.”

“More than one?”

Sherlock nodded. “She had also put the poison on Meredith’s needles in the hopes that when Meredith sat down to cross-stitch, she would prick herself and introduce the poison into her bloodstream that way. That’s why Morgan was in such a panic when the needles were misplaced. Meredith also had a habit of chewing her pens when she worked. I have no doubt that those would have been targets, too.”

“Good Lord!” John sipped his cocoa, then sighed and shook his head slowly. “I suppose just breaking up never occurred. Or is that old fashioned?”

“Business, John. Morgan didn’t just want to be rid of her wife, she also wanted the prestige and the profits of A Stitch in Nine all to herself.”

“Who would have believed that the world of cross stitch was so very cutthroat!”

“It’s a very lucrative world if you are as successful as Morgan and Meredith were.”

“I still can’t believe it. It just seems impossible.”

Sherlock shot John a look from over the rim of the mug.

“I know, I know,” said John quickly. “It’s only highly improbable. And speaking of, do you know what else is highly improbable?”

“You quite like what Meredith was working on when she died.”

“How on earth did you know that?!” sputtered John.

“Elementary, my dear Watson. You were staring.”

“Well, it was elegant, wasn’t it? Christmas card. Snowflake in silver thread on a dark blue background. I’m not keen on embroidery or any of that sort of stuff as a rule, but I was thinking that it was the kind of thing that…”

“…Mrs. Hudson would appreciate for Christmas?” finished Sherlock as he set his mug on the small table beside his chair and got to his feet. “So did I.” He strode towards his coat.

“There,” he said when he returned and had dropped a thin, flat plastic bag in John’s lap. “It’s likely that A Stitch in Nine will go belly-up now that Morgan’s been arrested.”

John looked at cross stitch kit then at Sherlock. “You want _me_ to do it?!”

“Of course. You’re right. It’s perfect. To Mrs. Hudson. From the both of us.”

“It’s a wonderful idea and she’s a wonderful landlady, but no! Why don’t you do it?”

“You’re the surgeon, John. The neatness of your suturing far exceeds mine.”

John frowned, then said, “Very well. But I’m going to exact my revenge.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “John, no! Not puns!”

“Don’t worry, my dear,” said John with an ominous grin. “I’ll have you in stitches, too.”


	6. Chestnuts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets burned on a case. Mild H/C.
> 
> The prompt is: fireplace.

“Thank goodness I travel with enough first aid supplies for a small field hospital.”

“Bandages, John? Surely they aren’t that bad.”

“I don’t want to run the risk of infection, Sherlock. Your hands!”

“It had to be done, John.”

John sighed, then wailed once more, using the phrase that had quickly become a refrain,

“But your hands!”

“I couldn’t very well retrieve it with my feet, John.”

“There were fire tongs!”

“Every second counted!”

“You could’ve told me to get it!”

“Then it would be me bandaging your burnt hands, a much more dismal scenario for everyone involved.”

“I’m very put out with you, Sherlock, and despite your stiff upper showing, these must hurt like murder.”

Sherlock couldn’t help smiling. “You can’t be too ‘put out with me’ if you’re making puns.”

John looked up and returned Sherlock’s smile. Then he finished his work.

“Very well, Mummy Fingers. That will do for tonight. We’ll see what they look like in the morning.”

Sherlock settled in an armchair. John settled in another opposite him.

The resemblance of the tableau to 221B was not lost on either of them.

But there was no fire.

“You risked your mitts for a very old-fashioned clue, Sherlock.”

“Fitting because this was a very old-fashioned case, John: a wealthy, curmudgeon grandfather threatens to cut his nearest and dearest out of his will right before Christmas but is prevented from doing so by some person or persons unknown.” He tilted his head. “But I disagree with you on one point. It _might_ have been a very old-fashion clue, that oft-touted sliver of a charred will found in the grate after the attempt at complete destruction, but as I acted quickly—”

“By reaching into the bloody fireplace while the fire was still raging!” interjected John.

“—I was fortunate, and the will was only very mildly singed. I knew that the murderer would confess all when confronted with his failure to destroy it.”

“Oh, yeah, he confessed all, but not until after he tried to kill you!”

“And that’s why I did not ask you to pull the will from the fire, John. I couldn’t risk your trigger finger not working properly.”

John chuckled. “Well, you do have a point there.” He glanced about the enormous suite. “It was quite kind of the Vamberrys to put us up for the night. I’m glad there’s central heating in this draughty old place. It’ll be a while before I’m keen to see another fireplace in use.”

“You have no qualms about sleeping in an allegedly haunted bedroom, John?”

John laughed. “No. The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply.” He stifled a yawn. “You know what else is big enough for us?” He nodded towards the canopied bed. “Ready?”

“Might as well, but I’m going to need some assistance.” Sherlock fluttered his bandaged fingers and smirked.

John raised one eyebrow, then licked his lips. “Buttons?”

Sherlock hummed, then added in a low rumble, “Among other things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a silly follow-up on Cheers called [Poinsettia Spritz Punch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604225/chapters/39644151).


	7. Forget-me-Nots.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John fakes amnesia for a case. 
> 
> The prompt is memories.

“Oh dear,” said the elderly lady, her beautiful face drawn with concern. “I’m not your mother, love.”

She placed the tiny decorated Christmas tree on the rolling table beside the bed and fussed with the branches and the little strings of lights the and the ornaments, miniature Santa Clauses and brightly wrapped gifts, adding under her breath, “Not your housekeeper, either.”

Then she looked him square in the face and smiled. “I’m your landlady. And your friend. Mrs. Hudson.”

John returned her smile, but whatever she saw made her face fall, and she glanced at the nurse, a formidable-looking middle-aged woman standing in the corner, entering numbers scribbled on a scrap of paper into a computer.

“What are the chances he’ll regain his memories?” asked Mrs. Hudson tentatively.

“Very good. It’ll just take time,” said the nurse without looking up from the screen she was tapping.

Mrs. Hudson sighed and forced another smile at John and began fussing once more with the little tree.

“I know it’s a bit early, but I wanted you to have something cheerful to looking at.” She gave his hand a tender squeeze. “The doctors aren’t saying much about when you’re coming home.”

The door burst open.

“He;s coming home soon, aren’t you, John?”

The nurse sprang.

“Mister Holmes, you are no longer on the authorised visitor list.”

“I’m no longer on _you_ r authorised list. I’m still on his. John, you remember now, don’t you? John! Fine, you don’t remember me, fine. We lived together, we worked together, we did, well, many things together, but whatever. All good. But this Mrs. Hudson. We were having scones with her in her downstairs flat when I got the text about the organ harvesting case and we went to the docks, to that warehouse, and there was the explosion—”

“I don’t remember! I don’t remember!” cried John as the machines about him started to beep angrily.

“Oh, Sherlock, please!” implored Mrs. Hudson. “You’re upsetting him.”

“YOU WOULD REMEMBER IF YOU COULD JUST TRY! THINK!”

“ALL I DO ALL DAY LONG IS TRY!”

“That’s it. You’re out of here,” said the nurse. “I’m calling security.”

“Don’t bother. I’m leaving.”

The door slammed, and John winced.

The nurse approached. “What’s your pain level, Mister Watson?”

John sighed. “Seven, but I don’t want anything.”

“Sir…”

“Later.”

“Inadvisable, but very well,” she said with a weary sigh. “I’ll check on you before I go off shift.”

“Shall I stay a bit longer, dear?” asked Mrs. Hudson.

Just then, there was a knock and a thick, low voice.

“Food service.”

“Oh well,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Here’s your supper. I’ll be by tomorrow.”

“Shall I walk you to the elevators, dear?” asked the nurse as she tucked her paper in her pocket.

“Oh, thank you so much. I get so lost in this place.”

* * *

“Mister Watson?”

“It’s a nine.”

“And?”

John sighed, then said reluctantly, “Give me the good stuff. Maybe I’ll sleep.”

John caught a flicker of relief in her eyes when she replied, “As you wish.”

* * *

John’s eyes were closed, but his ears were straining.

There it was.

The door.

Footsteps so soft that he could’ve fooled himself into thinking that it was just his imagination.

There was a tiny whirr that might have also been a dream. Or a nightmare, depending on your perspective.

John thought he heard hands moving quickly, professionally, and almost-silently about him.

Re-routing all his monitors, silencing the alarms.

The two tablets he’d not swallowed were clenched in his fist.

And then.

“You’re not going to remember anything every again, Mister Watson.”

The pillow was covering John’s face, pressing down on him, when the lights switched on.

Doors opened. Voices shouted.

“STOP!”

“You’re under arrest!”

“Nurse Paradol, what are you doing?!”

The nurse stood frozen with the pillow in her hands.

She looked from the man who sprung from the closet to the man, with the gun, who’d sprung from the toilet to the man in the long white coat who burst in from the main hallway to John.

“I don’t know what you thought you saw, but you’re mistaken,” she said, squeezing the pillow. “I was just putting this away.”

“We’ve got it all on camera,” said John, touching the base of the little tree. “And despite my recent claims to the contrary, I actually have no trouble at all remembering who it was I saw leaving the warehouse just before the explosion.”

Her eyes narrowed, then she turned her head and smiled and said, “Oh, no, you’re going down with me.”

* * *

“I’ve said it before, John, when a doctor goes wrong, he is the first of criminals.”

“And when he has a very competent nurse to assist him?” John whistled. “Watch out.”

“Very true. Well done, John. You played your part extremely well.”

“So did Mrs. Hudson.”

“Agreed.”

“And you, of course, in your dual role of Distraught Boyfriend and Food Service Worker Hiding in the Closet.”

Sherlock gave a minute bow.

“And Lestrade, naturally,” added John, “for bringing in the cavalry at the end and putting the handcuffs on a rather horrid pair of human beings.”

“Ready to go home?”

“Yes. Uh, Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“That tree, the one with the camera in it?”

“Yeah, Lestrade took it. Evidence.”

“Think we could get another?”

One of Sherlock’s eyebrows lifted.

“I want to catch you before you figure out what your gift is.”

“Too late, John.”


	8. En Pointe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John misheard. Sherlock said 'The _Knob_ -cracker."
> 
> The prompt is music.

“John, wait!”

“No! I’m going home! You lied to me, Sherlock!”

“One tiny white lie!”

John stopped and turned. Sherlock almost crashed into him.

Nose-to-nose, John glared and seethed.

“You said you had box seats tickets for a world-class performance of _The Nutcracker_ , one for which tickets have been sold out for almost a year. I’m wearing my best,” John made a gesture to his suit and slicked hair, “so are you.”

“Indeed, John. You look amazing, John. Absolutely delectable, John,” said Sherlock quickly.

“Thank you,” said John, the pink hue of his face not diminishing one shade, “I’ve been look forward to this afternoon, Sherlock, because you know what? I love _The Nutcracker_. I don’t care if it’s overdone or out of fashion. I love it. I love the music. I love the story. I love the dancing. It’s magical. It’s, quite literally, Christmas to me. And if that’s unpopular or unsophisticated, I don’t care. I don’t have your brains or your posh education or your cultivated tastes. And I was anticipating a wonderful show and then maybe dinner at Claridge’s. A really lovely evening.”

“John…”

“And what I got was being carted off to a filming of what is certain to be a holiday favourite in the world of adult entertainment: ‘The _Knob_ -cracker.’” He huffed and rolled his eyes.

“Simple mistake, John. And it isn’t my fault you haven’t got your hearing checked recently. A man of your advanced years should be screened…”

“I am going to punch you in face!”

“You cannot deny that the music was the same!” cried Sherlock, his hands raised in self-defense.

John snorted hotly and shook his head. “I was a bit distracted by all the sugar plumming.”

“But we solved it, John! And you were instrumental, in truth, you were essential in bringing about the solution to the case.”

“This! When you’re not lying, you’re keeping me in the dark! How was I instrumental when I don’t even know what the case was about?”

“You distracted The Knob-cracker so that I could lift his mobile, hack it, erase all traces of the incriminating evidence he has on our client, and return it with him none the wiser.”

“Our client?”

“One of the most revered names in England is being besmirched by a blackmailer, John.”

“How can anyone be blackmailed in this day and age? Everyone has a sex tape!” exclaimed John. “Regardless, I’m going home right now.”

“John, please, wait! There was only one lie.”

John stopped and turned. “You’re barking! Only one!”

Sherlock produced a pair of tickets. “It’s for an evening performance, not a matinee. I know precisely how much you like _The Nutcracker_ , and I long to see you as I am when I listen to the music I love performed expertly: it’s like you’re wrapped in the most perfect happiness, your gentle, smiling face, your languid, dreamy eyes. Quite different from this angry, sweary Boswell who wants to punch my face! I’ve us a table at Claridge’s for after. But I wouldn’t have been able to secure the tickets if I hadn’t solved the case. You’re right: the show’s been sold out for ages. I had to call in a favour from one of the most...”

“…revered names in England?”

Sherlock nodded.

John stared, then blinked, then crossed his arms over his chest.

Then he smiled, and Sherlock smiled, too.

“You planned it all, Sherlock.”

“There is method in my madness sometimes, John.”

“I’m sorry. I suppose there’s nothing for it. Shall we?”

John held out his bent arm for Sherlock to take.

And Sherlock did.


	9. Sherlock's resting Grinch face.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John ties Sherlock up and sleighs him. 
> 
> The prompt is: gift.

“Are you certain you don’t want me less dressed for this, John?

“No. You’re fine.” John tested the final knot. “I’ve been planning this for a couple of days…”

“Only a couple of days? I’ve been dreaming of this for ages.”

“…but then there was The Case of The Nut-less Nude-cracker and that business with the old Russian lady.”

“It has been a busy month. I will have to revise my supposition that criminals take a holiday this time of year.”

“Well, that’s that. You can’t get out, right?”

Sherlock tugged on the bonds. “No, but why would I want to get out when I’m in your firm, capable, loving hands?”

John smiled. “All right. I’ll just be a minute. I’m going to change.”

“Yes! It’s Christmas! The less the better, John. Liberate yourself.”

John snorted and left the bedroom.

When he returned, he was no longer wearing his usual lumpy oatmeal-coloured jumper.

He was wearing a jumper which featured a trio of cats grinning, evidently with triumph around a decorated spruce which they had just felled, and the exaltation ‘Have Yourself a Meow-y Little Christmas!’

Sherlock recoiled.

“John, what…?”

“You promised, Sherlock, that you would refrain from using your powers of observation and deduction with regard to your Christmas present.”

“Oh, that. I just couldn’t help myself. Curiosity killed the…hideous cat jumper.”

“You’ll agree that such a breech merits punishment?”

“Oh, well. Yes, I suppose. The crop is in the wardrobe.”

“I’m not going to use the crop, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, then he shot a nervous glance at the front of John’s jumper. “Well, I do have a thematically-appropriate cat o’ nine tails...”

John smiled and sat down at the foot of the bed and looked up at Sherlock, who was bound to the headboard with arms spread wide.

“You know, Sherlock, I suppose you think, at this time of the year, getting Santa-mental is a defect in the losing side.”

Sherlock frowned. “John…”

“And I suppose you know many things, but perhaps not that sheep, in Spain, when they wish each other season’s bleatings, they say ‘Fleece Navidad!’”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, then he grimaced. “John, no!”

“Except the sheep that aren’t keen on this time of year. They say ‘ba-ba-bah humbug.” John nodded, then sighed. “When I warned you not to get curious about your Christmas present, perhaps I should have given you another clue and said, ‘Otherwise, Yule be sorry.’”

“Ugh.”

“Am I sleighing you, my love?”

“Ugh!” Sherlock yanked hard at his bonds, then grumbled under his breath. “Damn knots.”

“Did you know Santa Claus comes down the chimney because it soots him, Sherlock?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and threw his head back and wailed, then he cracked an eye and said quickly, “The cat o’ nine tails is in the third drawer. I beg you, John. Use it instead.”

John shook his head and continued. “Do you know that a depressed Santa’s helper is one low on elf-esteem? Or if you eat the decorations you might get tinselitis? Oh, all right. That’s it. That’s all I got.”

“Really?” asked Sherlock hopefully.

John smiled. “No. There’s myrrh. Frankincense. And gold, of course.”

“Oh, Lord,” moaned Sherlock.

“Speaking of, Mary and Jesus knew how big Jesus was because they had a weigh in the manger. You know, maybe I should grow some face fungus,” John touched his upper lip thoughtfully, “then I could go ‘stashing through the snow.”

“How can you do this, John?”

“Oh, this? It’s a gift. And I’m inspired because you’ve been naughty and it’s the most pun-derful time of the year!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find out what naughtiness the boys got up to next at [Sven the Reindeer tea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604225/chapters/39769794) (Explicit) on Cheers.


	10. The Amateur Mendicant Society

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John bust an unsavoury club. Short. 
> 
> I am getting many of my cases and names from the original Sherlock Holmes stories. This one is mentioned by Watson in "The Five Pips" as occurring in 1887: _I find an account of the adventure of...the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse..."_
> 
> The prompt is: do you see what I see.

“You do see what I see, Sherlock?”

“Always, John. And more. And I draw superior conclusions from my observations, but let’s not belabour your shortcomings.”

John shot Sherlock a look, then turned his attention to the room.

“So this, this leather and chrome and brass, all polished to gleaming, was the headquarters of the Amateur Mendicant Society. It beggars belief.”

Sherlock shot John a look.

“I cannot abide puns, John.”

“Oh, let’s not belabour your shortcomings, Sherlock,” retorted John. He gazed at the heavy curtains and brushed his fingertips along the keys of the shiny piano. “No one would have thought that all this was in the lower vault of furniture warehouse.”

“No one but me, you mean.”

They walked slowly through each empty chamber, eyeing the leather armchairs by fireplaces without fires, the unopened boxes of cigars on mantelpieces, and the drinks carts full of top-shelf spirits.

“It’s not illegal for the sons of privilege to form a society to feign homelessness and beg for sport, but what happened to young Acrise was a crime.”

John nodded. “So, the club is defunct? Or has it just relocated?”

“It is abolished. Proper pressure applied in the proper quarters has resulted in the lads choosing some other avenue to relieve their ennui.”

“And this place?”

“It will be sold and the money, according to my agreement with Lord Acrise, will be donated.”

“Good. Which charity?”

“Charity begins at home, John, as I said, the Amateur Mendicant Society was, strictly-speaking, not a criminal enterprise, though quite certainly a morally-repugnant one.”

John stared, then snorted.

“You? You’re the charity! That’s rich!”

“The money will go towards making this time of year a bit more comfortable for my own Homeless Network, John.”

John smiled. “Caring...?”

“…may not be an advantage, but it _is_ Christmas.”


	11. Tidings.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & John read a love story. 
> 
> This is a re-telling of the original Sherlock Holmes story "The Blanched Soldier." The mild joke is that this is one of two original canon stories written from the perspective of Holmes and not Watson (we do not speak of "The Mazarin Stone").

_Dear Godfrey,_

_Your letter reached me on Christmas, and it was the best gift I could’ve got. Of late, we’ve had a bad spell of that numbing, deadly sickening cold in the evening, but I’ve been worrying myself into a near fever about you. I hope they’re patching you up well and good in Cape Town. I’m sending this in care of the hospital there, but perhaps by the time it arrives, you’ll be on your way back. I’m of two minds on that point: one, I’m past wanting to see your face, but God knows, I don’t wish more of this hellish business on you. Some days I think of abandoning the corps and making a dash for you, just to make certain you’re on the mend. I’m not much of a nurse-maid, but for you, I’d do just about anything…_

* * *

_Dear Jimmie,_

_I’m in South Hampton now, and it feels like the other side of the moon from where you are. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry that there’s no more brother Boer (or you) for playmate. What’s a lad with fighting blood to do when he’s too broken to fight? That elephant gun tore my shoulder to shreds, but that wasn’t even half of my nightmare. I can’t tell you the rest. All I can say is that I’m not the smart Lance-Corporal Emsworth of B Squadron anymore. It’d be better for you to think me dead and gone or on a voyage round the world or even to the moon…_

* * *

_Dear Godfrey,_

_You’re talking nonsense! What’s wrong with you? I know no one braver, no one finer, and whatever fix you’re in, we’ll see it through together. Every day, every moment, I think of leaving this blasted place behind and rushing home to find you and knock some answers out and some sense into your stubborn head. And the moment they say this war’s over, I’m on the first ship back and if I can’t find you, if I can’t help you, I’ll find someone who can. I love you, and I’m standing by you, come dreams or nightmares or scandals…_

* * *

_Dear Jimmie,_

_You always were an obstinate mule. You want the truth, here it is, but don’t say I didn’t warn you, it was that morning fight at Buffelsspruit, when I was hit, I struck onto my horse which galloped several miles before I fainted and rolled off the saddle. When I came to myself, I was brought to a house, and when I waked, I realised I was in a leper’s hospital and in a leper’s bed. I was removed to the general hospital in Pretoria a week later and when I reached home, I began to show signs of the disease itself. You mustn’t breathe a word of this. I’m being cared for at home in seclusion, in a little outhouse, but the hue and cry, if the truth were known, would send me to a place a far worse, from which there’d be no escape. Don’t say you’re not shocked, don’t say you love me, you’ve no notion of what I’m now, the monster I’ll be one day…_

* * *

_Dear Godfrey,_

_War’s over. I’m coming to you. We’ll fight this like we fought brother Boer. I owe you my life for pulling me out from under those rifles, and I owe you my heart for the rest. It’s time to re-pay the one and show you just how deep the other runs. I swear, by Christmas, we’ll be in each other’s arms…_

* * *

“Here, John. Another chapter in the tale, if you will.”

John blinked and realised he was now reading by the light of more than his own mobile phone.

A gloved hand was holding another letter before his gaze. A glance at the page told John that this new missive was not in not Godfrey’s or Jimmie’s hand; it was the near-illegible script which was ever the hallmark of a member of the medical profession.

Thus, John had no difficulty in deciphering the scrawl.

* * *

_To Mister Godfrey Emsworth:_

_As requested by you and Mister James M. Dodd, who originally solicited my services on your behalf, I am providing you with a written summary of my clinical findings as well as the recommended course of treatment. I stake my professional reputation of twenty-seven years of practise in the specialty of dermatology on the conclusions found herein._

_Your previous diagnosis was incorrect. You are suffering from a well-marked case of pseudo-leprosy or ichthyosis, a scalelike affliction of the skin, unsightly, obstinate, but possibly curable, and certainly non-infective. I am of the mind that the apprehension from which you suffered may have contributed to a physical effect simulating that which you feared._

_Going forward, I advise the following…_

* * *

John’s heart leapt, and he could not prevent a wide grin from spreading across his face. He shook his head slowly and said, with no little awe,

“Wow. Talk about tidings of comfort and joy.”

“Indeed. Look.”

In Sherlock’s hand was a faded photograph.

John gasped at the two beaming faces.

“Oh, Christ, is that them? Godfrey and Jimmie?

“Christmas, 1904, according to the inscription on the back,” said Sherlock. “And it appears,” he bent over John and examined the photograph closely, “that Doctor Saunders’ prescribed treatment was effective.”

John turned his head. “Oh, damn it, Sherlock, they _did_ get their happy ending!”

Sherlock met John’s gaze and returned his grin.

Puffs of fogged breath filled the faintly-lit space between them.

“You know, Sherlock, I was so engrossed in the story, I quite forgot about being locked in an antiques warehouse.”

“I phoned Lestrade. He’s on his way. But I confess I found the story compelling as well.”

“If—”

“When, John.”

“When we get out of here, Sherlock, do you think we could, somehow, buy this old dispatch box of correspondence from Colonel Carruthers?”

“Seeing as how he’s going to prison for a long while because of our efforts, I think a better strategy might be to negotiate, through a third party, with his husband, who will, no doubt, take over the business. But I think it’s possible.”

“Well, I think this,” John held up the bundle of letters and photograph, “would make a wonderful story. For the blog or maybe even for publication.”

“I agree, John, so much so that I wouldn’t mind trying my hand at writing the story myself.”

“You?! Fancy you, writing a love story!”

“With your help, of course, John.”

“Of course, I’d be happy to…”

“I shall need some advice as to how best to pander to popular taste.”


	12. Spicy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's too spicy for gingerbread construction.
> 
> The prompt is: gingerbread.
> 
> There's a very obscure pun here. One, the original Sherlock Holmes stories reference 'Wilson the notorious canary trainer' and Wilton, which is the name used in the ficlet, is the name of a company in the US that makes cake supplies and decorations (including $9 gingerbread house kits that are, at the moment, being sold in massive displays in certain craft stores in the US).

Four slabs of gingerbread collapsed in a pile like a quartet of thick, stiff, brown dominoes pathetically smeared with white icing.

“Fuck! Not again!”

John bit his lip.

He turned his head.

The expression of the Girl Scout on his left held nothing but pity.

He turned his head again.

The expression of the Girl Scout on his right held a mix of disdain and disappointment.

“I’m a doctor,” John protested. “Not an engineer! These walls just won’t stay. How did you make yours stay?”

The two Girl Scouts said nothing. They simply shook their heads in a rather mournful fashion and lifted the squares of cardboard, upon which sat their own gingerbread houses with straight walls and snowy roofs and cheerful decorations, off the table and floated away.

“Damn,” muttered John.

“John! All done? No. What’s this?”

“Sherlock! Please tell me you’ve spotted the bastard!”

“No, sadly. Although his name is all over the place Wilton, the notorious canary-trainer, isn’t here.”

“And just when did you discover this?”

“Oh, about five minutes after we arrived.”

“And I’ve been sitting here, for over an hour, trying to make this bloody—”

“John, really, your language, there are children!”

“—there are going to hear a lot worse, very soon. Why in the—”

“Dickens?” suggested Sherlock. “After all it is Christmas.”

“—have we stayed here if there wasn’t a case!”

“I wanted to finish my Ginger-Palace.”

“Your what?”

“Come and have a look,” said Sherlock. He lifted one of the gingerbread slabs from John’s pile, took a bite out of it, and hummed.

* * *

“Oh, that’s bullocks!”

“Really, John.”

“I mean, it’s as if a gingerbread Bodleian and gingerbread Versailles had a gingerbread love child.”

“An apt description.”

“How did you get the walls to stand up?”

“Really, John. It’s very simple. Even a child could manage it."

“Oh, sod off!”

“Excuse me,” said a polite voice, “but I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave. There have been some complaints about the use of,” she coughed, “heated language.”

John’s face reddened, and he looked pointedly at the ground.

“Of course, Ginger Owl,” said Sherlock with a slight bow. “Our sincerest apologies. Thank you and your troop so much for your assistance. Come along, Doctor Watson. You’re a bit too spicy for gingerbread construction.”

John gave a nod at the troop leader and hurriedly followed Sherlock out of the room.


	13. Chill.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets the silent, cold treatment. 
> 
> The prompt is: frost.
> 
> The incident with Lestrade is described in [Roasted Chestnut Old Fashioned](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604225/chapters/39943128).

Though mercury in the thermometer was rising and the last of the snow had turned to puddles, inside 221B Baker Street, a frost had settled.

The first day John said nothing, mainly because Sherlock had been absent from mid-morning and John did not see him before he went to bed, but the second day, John decided to act. His first two subtle attempts at conversation were rebuffed with grunts and dismissive waves of the hand, but he persisted. And finally he simply blurted out,

“Sherlock, are you still upset about yesterday morning, about my ogling Lestrade?”

Sherlock took the steaming cup of tea that John offered but did not look up from his laptop.

“Of course not. I’m just busy, John. A few loose ends to take care of in the forgery case.”

“But you didn’t want me to come with you yesterday to Barts and the Yard.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“You said, if I remember correctly, that I would be too distracted by daydreaming about Lestrade’s naked, bronzed torso to be of any use.”

“You seemed to make a close and admiring scrutiny when we dropped by his place yesterday morning.”

“My finding Lestrade physically attractive at a particular moment in time doesn’t diminish my attraction, or my love or my commitment,” Sherlock would not meet John’s searching gaze, “to you, Sherlock.”

“Excuse me, John.”

Sherlock stood and turned toward the coat rack.

John sighed.

Then he had an idea and sprang—and snatched Sherlock’s coat just before Sherlock could reach it.

“John!”

“No! Don’t go. Let’s talk about this!”

“Oh, you are a child! Give me my coat!”

“No!”

They zigzagged about the sitting room until Sherlock pounced, throwing them both to the ground. Then they wrestled, rolling and thrashing about on the rug. At last, John pinned Sherlock on his back, his shoulders just beneath the lowest branches the Christmas tree.

Sherlock struggled, knocking the tree, and a cascade of silver tinsel rained down upon them and settled, blanketing the pair with a thin sparkly rime.

“Tell me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked away and huffed. Then he looked back at John. Whatever he saw in John’s eyes made him say,

“I don’t tan. I can’t tan. I burn. I peel. It’s ghastly. And it would take drastic chemical or surgical measures for my chest to approach the hirsute state of Lestrade’s.”

“Warm, golden sand is beautiful. Pale, cool alabaster is beautiful. The beauty of one doesn’t negate the beauty of another, Sherlock. And what’s more, your worth isn’t determined by your beauty. How you love the people in your life, me, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, your brother, and how you love the world through your work, your courage, your compassion, your resilience, your generosity, that’s what matters. You are beautiful, Sherlock, and I want you, need you, worship your gorgeous form, but you are so much more. And I love you, all of you, and I want to share my life with you, you maddening git, and admiring a bit of beauty in someone else doesn’t change any of that. And if we go on holiday, you’ll wear sunscreen, lots of it, and that’s an order.”

With every word that spilled from John’s lips, the atmosphere in the room warm by a degree, and beneath him, he felt the tension leave Sherlock’s body.

What a lovely thaw, he thought, as he loosened his grip and shifted his weight off Sherlock.

Sherlock curled towards John and brought his hands to John’s face. He drew John close and brushed his lips to John’s.

John returned the kiss, pressing hard, taking, in turn, Sherlock’s top and bottom lips between his own lips and gently sucking them. Then he resumed a full-on kiss, lips moving against lips.

The kiss deepened. Sherlock’s tongue swiped John’s bottom lip just before his head fell back onto the floor with a sigh.

“It’s not like you to be this insecure, Sherlock.”

“Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if you’d like to be with someone more mature, more normal, like Lestrade.”

“The answer is no, and if you ever doubt or forget and need to hear it again, just ask.” John brushed the tinsel from Sherlock’s hair and smiled. “I’m not surprised at all, you know; oftentimes I wonder if you wouldn’t like to be with someone who’s a bit cleverer.”

“No. Mycroft’s cleverer, and I loathe him. You’re perfect, for me, that is.”

“I adore you, Sherlock, but don’t shut me out when you’re worried. It gets too chilly in here.”

“Oh that? Well, that’s the thermostat, John. I forgot to mention that Mrs. Hudson said someone will be here in the afternoon to fix it.”

John laughed. “So until then I suppose we’re relying on each other for warmth?”

Sherlock smiled. “Not an unpleasant set of circumstance.”


	14. O Tannin Balm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock and tea. 
> 
> Today is International Tea Day!
> 
> The prompt is: a beautiful sight.

**_It’s a beautiful sight._ **

John’s eyelids flutter open, and the first thing he sees is a cup on the bedside table. The steam rising from the rim tells him that it’s fresh.

He groans a happy groan and pushes himself to sitting.

Then he groans a sad groan as his body reminds him of all he put it through the previous evening.

First there was the case, which was the very opposite of a sit-and-think problem. On the contrary, it was a dash-and-bash, a flight-and-fight-some-bloody-bastards affair.

Surprisingly, neither he nor Sherlock had sustained any major injuries, and they’d returned to the flat at half two in the morning flush with victory. The residual adrenaline took its natural course which meant exercise of a wholly different sort and a soreness of a wholly different sort, the latter of which is compounding John’s morning’s complaint.

A phrase about ‘spring chickens’ flits through John’s thoughts as he inches closer to the cup.

Not wanting to spill, he moves to the edge of the bed, his feet on the floor. He reaches for it with two hands.

“Hello, beautiful,” he cooes when he is close enough to smell the aroma.

It is the perfect shade of brown.

Black, one sugar, yes, sir.

Milk is for later, John’s second cup, when he is ready to face the world. He likes his first cup like he likes his detectives: sharp, strong…

“And not too sweet,” says a thick, sleepy, shagged-out baritone.

John feels a pair of lips on his bare shoulder as he takes his first sip.

The rich flavour coasts over his tongue. The liquid flows, dragging its warmth, down John’s throat and spreads into his chest.

And the alchemy of the agony of the leaf does it strange, domestic magic.

* * *

**_We’re happy tonight._ **

The case—which Sherlock, in his head, calls ‘The Bogus Laundry Affair,’ but which John has, for bizarre reasons known only to him, provisionally entitled ‘The Shammy Shammy Coco Pop’—wrapped up just in time for them to grab a takeout on the way back to Baker Street.

So here they are, sitting at the kitchen table, picking over tandoori chicken and tikki masala, while John organises his notes about the case and commences his hunt-and-peck at his laptop, and Sherlock feigns interest in the latest BMJ.

Sherlock isn’t really reading. He is savouring, more than the curry and cumin, more even than the resolution of the case, the moment, this moment of quiet, peaceful, companionable, in the fullest and divinest sense of the word, communion with John.

It is bliss, he thinks, but he is wrong because in a moment, John, with a glance up and a smoothing of wrinkled brow and a tender smile, will reaches out, and without preamble, prompt or provocation, squeezes Sherlock’s hand.

Then he goes right back to his florid prose, lurid detail, and hyperbolic metaphors as if nothing has happened.

As if it wasn’t, in fact, bliss.

Ordinary bliss.

Sherlock eats because John eats, and when they are finished, John asks, predictably,

“Tea?”

Sherlock nods, not trusting his voice to betray the swell of emotion in his chest.

It will be nursery tea, of course, too milky, too sweet, to combat the spiciness of the meal.

Sherlock watches.

Then the cup is placed before him, and Sherlock takes the first sip.

What crosses his palate will forever be wedded in his thoughts and perhaps in somewhere a bit deeper, carved on the walls of the caves conducting his nerve fibres, not to childhood, the horror, but to adulthood.

And home with John.

And happiness.

* * *

_**Walking in a winter wonderland.** _

“Thank you,” says John.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“For coming out with me tonight. I know a stroll through a botanical garden decorated for Christmas is not your, well, you know.”

John raises the cardboard cup in his gloved hand.

Sherlock brings his own cardboard cup to John’s. “To a night off.”

John smiles. “Cheers.”

They sip and walk and look at the displays.

“You’re not bored?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Not yet. I am still enjoying your enjoyment.”

And then Sherlock does something he’s never done, at least not in as public as place as this one.

He throws his hand across John’s shoulders.

John looks up, eyes wide.

Sherlock looks down, his head tilted in enquiry.

“Of course, it’s all right, you nutter,” whispers John as he snuggles against the Belstaff and snakes his free hand around Sherlock’s waist.

And they remain there, sipping tea, until the first snowflakes fall.

They untangle themselves and make their way towards the entrance.

Sherlock tosses his cup and John’s in a bin. “What was that called?”

“Christmas blend with the pretentious moniker ‘Walking in a Winter Wonderland.’ What d’you think?”

“Not bad. And rather appropriate in the circumstances.”


	15. Do You Hear What I Hear?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas karaoke (with Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Hopkins, and Donovan)
> 
> The prompt is: toy solider.
> 
> References to the following songs: "Little Saint Nick" by the Beach Boys, "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town" by Bruce Springsteen, "You're a Mean One, Mister Grinch" by Thurl Ravenscroft, and "Toy Soldiers" by Martika.

_Well way up north where the air gets cold…_

John gave a long wolf whistle. “Go Greg!” he yelled above the blaring music. Then he said in a much softer voice to the person standing beside him, “What are the chances he takes that Hawaiian shirt off by the end of the song?”

Hopkins shook her head and whispered back, “It’s way too early for that, but this, uh,” she eyed her glass and its colourful contents, “reindeer punch is quite strong so maybe after round two…”

_It's the little Saint Nick…_

“Little Saint Nick!” sang back John and Hopkins at the top of their lungs.

* * *

_Hey, Sherlock, you been investigating real hard? Maybe Santa’ll bring you a new microscope! Let’s go! You better not pout…_

“Good Lord,” said Sherlock and Mycroft at the same time.

They brought the drinks in their hands to their mouths at the same time, sipped at the same time, raised their eyebrows at the same time and in the same way, and looked at each other at the same time.

“Quite full of Yuletide spirit this, uh, reindeer punch,” observed Mycroft. “Must ask for the recipe.”

“Brother Mine, a question.”

“Yes, Brother Mine?”

“What is the probability that John removes his vest before he finishes his serenade?”

“Excellent question. There are many factors to consider, most principally, how many of these,” Mycroft nodded at his glass, “has he consumed?”

* * *

_You’re a mean one, Mister Grinch…_

“Oh. My. God.” Lestrade gawked. “I never would have thought your brother would go in for Christmas karaoke, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorted. “He may never again, but I’ve got this one on record.” He held his drink in one hand and his mobile in the other.

“He’s really good,” said John. “I like the dancing and the umbrella twirling. I’d say the music hall stage lost a fine performer when he decided to go in for the dagger in the cloak room.”

“Oh. My. God.” Lestrade gawked. “He loosened his tie!”

John gave a long wolf whistle.

“The shame!” wailed Sherlock as he kept filming.

* * *

_Step by step, heart to heart, left right left. We all fall down like toy soldiers…_

“That’s not a Christmas song,” said Lestrade, frowning. “I thought he was going to do ‘All I Want is You.’”

“Here’s your drink,” said John. “Yeah, it is kind of odd—oh, Christ, Greg, look where he’s pointing! It isn’t a song, it’s a signal.”

“What are you talking about? Hard to see in the crowd. Jesus Christ, it’s Merridew, the fucking Chelsea strangler, looking like a bloody choir boy as always! Hopkins?!”

“Here. Donovan and I will take the front entrance.”

“Yeah, I’ll take the side exit.”

“I’ll try to get near him in the crowd and flush him out,” said John.

“Shall I accompany you, Doctor?” asked Mycroft.

“Yeah,” said John with a smirk. “Always wanted a Grinch for a wingman.”

_Bit by bit, torn apart. We never win but the battle wages on for toy soldiers…_


	16. What's On the Tin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's baking.
> 
> The prompt is: seasons greetings.

“Sherlock!”

“Mm?”

“It’s dangerous to eat the raw dough!”

“I live dangerously, John,” replied Sherlock as he sneaked another ball and popped it into his mouth.

“When you get salmonella…”

“I’ll be very grateful that I live with a doctor!” Sherlock sidled to the oven and peeked in. “Ooo!” he said as he let the door slam shut. Then he glanced at the counter. “Are your making florentines?”

“Among others. They’re someone’s favourite or so I’ve heard. Even though that someone shouldn’t get anything because he’s been very naughty, eating all my, stop it, stop it, biscuits before I can even get them in the oven. There’s gingerbread and cinnamon stars and…”

Sherlock hummed. “Those remind me of old Mrs. Harold and her recipe for Father Christmas shortbread.”

“Oh, yes?”

“The secret ingredient was arsenic, of course. She did away with three husbands and a neighbour’s Peke that way.”

“Oh, Sherlock!”

“Mm?”

“You’re joking!”

“I’m not!” He snuck another ball from the baking sheet.

“Stop or there’s not going to be any left to bake!”

Sherlock huffed.

“You’d better stop, Sherlock, or else.”

“Or else what?”

“What does rosemary wish oregano this time of year?”

“Oh, God, no!”

“Seasoning’s Greetings!”


	17. Smile!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John in another Santa suit. 
> 
> The prompt is warm and cosy.

John waved.

Sherlock waved.

“Warm and cosy up there, John?” asked Sherlock, smiling around clenched teeth.

“Oh, yeah,” replied John, also smiling around clenched teeth. “Oh, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Next year I’m spending the whole of December in a place that does not celebrate Christmas. You are not invited. This is the second time this month that I’ve been forced to dress up as Father Christmas!”

“Oh, what are you complaining about? You’re in a woolly suit with padding and boots. What with the beard, the wig, and the spectacles, not even your own mother would recognise you. Here I am, face to the world, in green tights and tunic and pointy ears and shoes with bells on them!”

“I quite like the ears, Sherlock. I’ve always thought you were a bit Vulcan.”

“Shall we talk about your bowl full of jelly?”

“If your brother hadn’t sworn that this was a matter of highest national security…”

“It was Lestrade who swore…”

They looked at each other.

“Oh, I’m going to kill them!”

“Not before I do!”

“When this parade is over…”

“I suggest a double murder, then a visit to the Turkish bath on Jermyn Street.”

“Sounds warm and cosy.”


	18. A Visit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221B gets a visit on Christmas Eve.
> 
> from the original canon story "The Sussex Vampire": _"Matilda Briggs...was a ship which is associated with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet prepared."_
> 
> Written for DW Watson's Woes Advent.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the flat,  
nothing was stirring, save a Great Sumatran Rat.  
The giant rat crept down the chimney with care,  
but he needn’t have bothered. No one was there!  
The sleuth and his blogger were off on a case.  
The rat sniffed the air. To himself, he’d the place!  
From the stockings he leapt and decided to roam.  
How far he had strayed from his warm island home!  
Escaping the law and in search of new digs,  
he’d left paradise on the ship Mattie Briggs.  
Ol’ Mattie was sweet but a bit of a bore,  
so, he’d vanquished the crew, then run her ashore.  
Sowing strife where he went, every warning the same:  
only one cur might catch him, and Holmes was his name.  
So, London-town called; his course set nor-nor-east,  
And now here he was, in the lair of the beast.  
This man Holmes was dead-walking, but arch-enemy  
entrapment went best with a nice cup of tea.  
En route to the kettle, the rat spied something grand:  
a sweet-smelling _chateau_ , white iced, marzipanned.  
The sugar! The ginger! The wee toffee sweets!  
Oh, chocolate! Oh, cinnamon! Oh, peppermint treats!  
The great rat made for tea and the blogger’s best tin  
with a lick, with a flick, with a wicked-rat grin.  
He munched, and he crunched, his taste buds a-reeling.  
and he washed the crumbs down with a first flush Darjeeling.  
His belly a-burst, he gave a faint moan,  
but his sharp ears quick-twitched. Was he _quite_ all alone?  
And then, in a twinkling, he heard something new,  
a something was crawling with stealth down the flue.  
As dropped from his paw the last peppermint twist,  
down the chimney it came in a mute, sooty mist.  
It was dressed all in black, a coarse boiler suit;  
half-unzipped revealed, though, Saville Row absolute.  
At the strange bundle of sorts, the rat blinked once, twice;  
a keen sniff confirmed, yes, detonation device.  
How dare!—the rat bristled. This was quite the worst!  
This fiend couldn’t off Holmes! The rat’d got here first!  
A droll little plan was drawn up mighty quick;  
and as the twist hit the rug, the rat crooned, ‘Oh, Saint Nick?’  
The creature, a man, started proper at that,  
(as most tend to do when addressed by a rat!).  
He stared, and he squinted. The rat said, ‘Be calm.  
We’ll both be quite for it if you drop that nice bomb.’  
Curious eyes gleamed, getting over the ‘gotcha.’  
Then a Gaelic lilt purred: ‘I hear it’s nice in Sumatra.’  
The rat’s turn to start. This was most unexpected.  
His whiskers a-twitch, his expression affected.  
‘Plan A can wait,’ said the man with a smirk.  
‘Moriarty’s the name. I’m a fan of your work.  
A confab’s in order. A chinwag. You agree?  
An exchange of ideas between like-minded we.’  
‘Perhaps. But not here,” the Giant Rat said.  
‘I fancy more tea and much more gingerbread.’  
The man gave a smile and a bow with aplomb;  
then he zipped up his suit and took up his bomb.  
To the chimney he went with a chuckle of glee  
‘What a marvelous turn! Mister Rat, after me!’  
Then smoothing his hair and striking a pose,  
and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.  
The rat made to follow, up the smokestack most snug  
But then he remembered the twist on the rug.  
He went back to snatch the sweet peppermint treat.  
A fatal mistake, for—door slam! stomping feet!  
He started to flee, then to panic and cringe  
for his paws were now tangled in sticky red fringe.  
A hue and a cry. ‘My gingerbread house!  
It’s gone! Gobbled up! By a very large mouse!’  
And the last thing the rat heard ‘fore—Lights out! _Fin!_ Kaput!  
was ‘Don’t fret, my dear John. The game’s quite under foot!’  
And the moral of the story (in case it’s been missed):  
all bad Christmas tails end with a peppermint twist!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: celebration. And today I am celebrating my 5th anniversary as a fanficcer.


	19. Crossed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get their wires crossed on a case. 
> 
> The prompt is: silent night.
> 
> Also for the DW picture prompt fun Day 19 prompt: this is [John's ugly Christmas jumper](https://picturepromptfun-mod.dreamwidth.org/file/112152.jpg).

**9:01**

Sherlock fought the urge to pace.

John was late.

One minute late, but even so, late.

They’d agreed to rendezvous at the corner of Basingstoke Road and Eglesford Court after John had made his surveillance of the client’s place of business. Sherlock was known to the client, and he wanted a second opinion before he decided to dismiss the case as nothing but the product of the old man’s paranoia.

Really, the task was horribly simple. Even John could do it.

That was the last thing Sherlock had said to John before they went their separate ways.

_‘Really the task is horribly simple. Even you can do it.’_

And the last thing that John had said to Sherlock?

_‘Sod off, git.’_

It should not have taken John more than an hour.

Sherlock wanted to smoke. Badly.

He wanted to pace. Just as badly.

He settled for taking a deep breath and staring at his phone.

* * *

**9:10**

Sherlock texted John. Sherlock’s coat buzzed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” said Sherlock under his breath as he pulled John’s phone from his own pocket. “Brilliant, John.”

Then Sherlock remembered earlier in the day when he had said those exact words.

_‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! Brilliant, John.’_

John had descended the stairs in a green-and-white jumper with a large reindeer wearing sunglasses encircled by the words ‘Make It Rein.’

_‘It’s surveillance, John. You’re supposed to blend in. You look ridiculous.’_

_‘It’s Christmas, you posh bastard. I’ll wear what I want. Take a picture of me. I want to send it to Lestrade.’_

Sherlock had refused, then pretended to comply in order to confiscate John’s phone.

Out of pure spite.

Oh, Sherlock had been a right bastard today, it was true, and now it was biting him in the arse.

Where was John? Why hadn’t he returned? Was he in trouble? Had something happened?

Sherlock bit his lip, then shook his head.

It was a simple task. John wasn’t in trouble.

Maybe he’d thought he’d lost the phone and was looking for it.

Maybe he’d got fed up with Sherlock and gone back to Baker Street.

Or to the nearest pub.

_‘What I want you to do tonight is far more important than one of your mindless drunken orgies, John.’_

_‘A pint with Greg is hardly a mindless orgy, Sherlock, but all right. What is it?’_

Yes, before Sherlock had persuaded him otherwise, John had been planning to have a pint. Maybe he’d decided to have one after all and had no way of letting Sherlock know.

Or maybe…

No, nothing had happened to John, no.

* * *

**9:30**

Sherlock abandoned his spot at the corner of Basingstoke Road and Egelsford Court and walked in the direction of the client’s shop. His eyes scanned the street, the pavement, windows of the businesses.

John, John, John. Where was he?

It began to snow.

Sherlock reached the client’s shop.

No sign of John.

A freshly-laid shawl of snow dusted the sign that read ‘Toys & Curios,’ and a thin white carpet of the stuff was rolled out before the large shop window.

Sherlock approached the window and, violating all the cautions he’d laid before John, peered in, like would-be burglar or a curious child.

All was calm. Silent night.

But no John.

He wasn’t inside. He wasn’t outside. He wasn’t in any of the nearby pubs.

If something had happened to him…

Sherlock’s mind started to churn unhelpfully, recalling all the things he’d said to John that day in rapid succession

_…even you can do it…_

_…for fuck’s sake…_

_...ridiculous…_

_…mindless…_

_Just let John be okay, and I won’t be cross to him ever again._

Sherlock felt his cheeks flush at the child-like bargain.

He was the one being ridiculous.

He’d go back to Baker Street and wait for John, after he stopped by the corner of at Basingstoke Road and Egelsford Court one last time.

* * *

**9:00**

At the corner of Basingstoke Court and Eglesford Road, John waited, cursing Sherlock with every puff of fogged breath.

Where was he? John had done what he asked.

It was going to snow soon. John could smell it. He wanted to be back at the Baker Street flat before it got well under way.

No doubt Sherlock had got distracted by something and lost track of time.

Git.

And he had John’s mobile, so John had no way of contacting him.

Sherlock had been such a foul mood. Usually, it took three weeks, not three days, without a case to get him into such a state but this December had been bizarre, case after case. John had welcomed the so-called drought: a day to get caught up on sleep, a day to put the flat into something resembling order, and a day to do something nice and normal, like get Mrs. Hudson a Christmas gift and have a pint with Greg.

But, no.

Not so for Sherlock.

John knew the Christmas jumper would annoy Sherlock. He’d worn it just to spite him.

But what if something had happened to Sherlock?

What if Sherlock didn’t trust John’s surveillance and had changed his mind and decided to check out the shop himself?

Such a wanker sometimes.

But John loved him, adored him, even when he was mired in his black mood.

John began to pace.

What should he do?

Wait a bit longer. Then go back to the shop.

* * *

**9:45**

John arrived at the shop.

No Sherlock.

But wait.

He looked at the footprints in the snow; a corner of his mouth lifted.

Sherlock had been here. He’d left his tracks.

Well, it was the sidekick’s turn to be sleuthhound.

John followed the tracks.

* * *

**10:00**

Bloody hell!

John stopped.

Basingstoke Road and Eglesford Court!

Not Basingstoke Court and Eglesford Road!

Sometimes John really was an idiot that Sherlock claimed.

He didn’t even need to look at the footprints to know where he was headed next.

Back to Baker Street.

* * *

**10:20**

Sherlock had been forced to stop twice to halt the chorus of intrusive thoughts and dampen his rising anxiety.

It was just a misunderstanding, a miscommunication, a row, perhaps.

Nothing that couldn’t be mended, resolved, understood.

John was fine. He had to be fine.

He had to be fine so that Sherlock could tell him he loved him.

In the moment, that seemed of paramount importance to Sherlock.

And there was 221 Baker Street.

No light on upstairs but that didn’t mean anything.

Maybe John was there, in his bedroom.

Please let him be there.

“SHERLOCK!”

Oh, thank God.

* * *

**10:20**

The look on Sherlock’s face.

Relief. Joy.

Sherlock started at a trot as if he were a hero in a romantic film about to sweep John up in his arms.

The veil of reserve came down by the time John reached Sherlock, but it didn’t matter.

John had seen it. He knew that Sherlock had been worried. Very worried.

“I’m all right, Sherlock.”

“I know,” said Sherlock, pressing John’s mobile into his hands. “Apologies.”

John nodded. “I was at Basingstoke Court and Eglesford Road.”

Sherlock sighed and swore. “Always something! Easy mistake. Could happen to anyone."

They crossed the threshold of 221 Baker Street and climbed the seventeen steps.

“You were right about the place, Sherlock. I didn’t see anything of note.”

“Ah, well, then Mister Nathan Garrideb is mistaken about Christmas goblins trying to break into his shop to steal his toys.”

They reached the sitting room, and Sherlock took John’s hand in his.

“John.”

And that was the last word that was spoken for the rest of the silent night.


	20. Home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets shot on a case. 
> 
> This references the original canon story of "The Three Garridebs." 
> 
> The prompt is: home. Also for DW fffc: little special: roll the dice (fic of 326 words).

“I suppose it’s useless to insist you go home.”

“It’s not home without you. I can’t bear it, all the,” Sherlock made a vague wave of the hand, “Christmas. I never went in for it.” The ‘until you’ went unspoken.

“So, you’re going to kip here, all night, in that uncomfortable chair?”

Sherlock grunted. “I’ve done far worse.”

“I’ll be discharged tomorrow. I’m just going to rest.”

Sherlock grunted again.

“It’s a mere scratch, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mobile buzzed. He looked down, then spoke.

“James Winter has been killed by person or persons unknown.”

“Sherlock!”

“I can’t say I’m sorry, but I’m not responsible. I’ve been with you since you were shot.”

“Mycroft?”

“Possibly. Or Moriarty.”

“Moriarty!”

“A man like James Winter, alias Morecroft alias John Garrideb alias "Killer" Evans,” is bound to have enemies.”

“In as high a place as the Spider’s web?”

“Perhaps.”

John hummed, then said,

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“For what?”

“For getting myself shot the week before Christmas!”

Sherlock huffed. “The timing means nothing, John. And it is I who need to apologise to you for not realising who Winter was and just how far he would go to protect his ill-gotten gains and the instruments of their creation. He had a printing press and a stack of counterfeit banknotes in Garrideb’s cellar.”

“Garrideb,” mused John. “I’m not happy about being shot, not a bit, but I am rather glad it was me, Sherlock. If Winter had confronted Nathan Garrideb in the same manner, the old man might not have survived the scratch.” Then John glanced at his bandaged arm and added ruefully, “I’ll just add the scar to my collection.”

“I don’t know that you haven’t fared better, John. Garrideb fainted when he learned that his lottery win was nothing but a ruse. He’s under nursing care as well for the moment.”

“Really? Oh, damn.” John sighed. He reached his hand out, and Sherlock clasped his fingers.

“Tomorrow we’ll be home, John.”


	21. Card.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While John convalesces, he and Sherlock do their Christmas cards.
> 
> The prompt is: hopes and fears.
> 
> This is a continuation of the previous chapter where John was shot. 
> 
> Also for the DW picture prompt fun Advent Calendar Day 17: [Christmas card](https://picturepromptfun-mod.dreamwidth.org/file/103852.jpg).

“I’ve got it,” said John to no one in particular as he reached the ninth of seventeen steps. He gripped the railing tightly with the hand of his good arm.

_Good_ arm. Lord. The _left_ was his good arm now, that is, the one less-recently-shot.

“My bedroom? Sofa?” asked Sherlock, hovering just behind.

“Yes, yes,” said John. “Sofa for now. I don’t want to be shut up in a sickbed. Had enough of that in hospital.”

When John was finally ensconced on the sofa, he sighed, then his face lit.

“Oh, do you what I can do?”

“Recover from being shot? I believe the colloquial phrase is ‘take it easy.’”

“Our Christmas cards!”

“Our?”

“Well, yours, really. I thought it matter of professional courtesy for you to send a card to all the clients you’ve served this year. Everything’s in a box upstairs. All you need to do is sign the cards. I’ll address them.”

“You have addresses for them all?”

“Yes, I collect them when I do the post-case satisfaction survey.”

Sherlock stared. “When you do what?!”

“You run a business, Sherlock. It’s how we can afford things like murder-themed Christmas tree. I know you’ve got family money but relying on that makes feel singularly uncomfortable, like a kept woman. The pittance from what little locum work I manage to squeeze in between cases barely keeps beans in the cupboard and tea in the tin.”

“I think you’re wrong, John. I don’t run the business, you do.”

“There wouldn’t be a business without you. Go get the box on my desk upstairs and warm up your signing hand.”

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, Captain.”

* * *

“Mortimer Maberley, yes, that was a trifling matter. Count Von und Zu Grafenstein, yes, not so trifling, being almost blown to bits by a Nihilist,” said Sherlock as he scribbled his name on the card.

John had neat piles stacked on the coffee table: the unsigned, the unaddressed, the unlicked and unstamped, and the finished.

“Who are Cecelia and Wilbur Rhinegate?”

“I’ll give you a clue,” said John. He showed Sherlock the addressed envelope.

“Margate! Oh, the case of the woman with no powder on her nose!”

John laughed. “Do you remember…?”

* * *

Five minutes later, they were still laughing.

“Sir James Saunders,” read Sherlock, glancing at the pile of envelopes.

“Do you remember…?”

“And then…”

“The Crosby family…”

“That was the strangest thing…”

“Not half as strange as…”

“I don’t suppose there are any Abernettys who’d like to be reminded…

“No, I left them off the list on purpose…”

* * *

“Musical interlude?” suggested Sherlock, taking up his violin and bow.

“Please. But you must wear the antlers.”

“John!”

“I’m convalescing, Sherlock,” said John with a pout. “Antlers, please?”

“No!”

“Shot!” cried John and raised his right arm slightly, then winced in a theatrical display of pain. “Ow!”

“You’re going to milk this for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

* * *

“ _…the hopes and fears of all the years…”_

John hummed and when the song was over, he said,

“I like that one, Sherlock. That’s my favourite.”

“You like them all. They’re all your favourites.”

“True,” John nodded at the cards, “Let’s finish these. I’ll take them to the post office in the morning.”

“Very well.”

But they didn’t finish until very late, for each time a card passed into Sherlock’s hands, neither he nor John could resist a comment which devolved into a reminiscence.

“It’s been a very busy year,” said Sherlock when there was only one pile.

“Indeed,” agreed John.

“I couldn’t have done it, any of it, without you, John.”

“And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but by your side, Sherlock.”


	22. Imagine the Christmas dinner.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and Mycroft treat John to a Christmas feast.
> 
> The prompt is: feast.
> 
> Also for DW picture prompt photo Day 20: [horse-drawn sleigh](https://picturepromptfun-mod.dreamwidth.org/file/105223.jpg).

Rage overwhelmed dismay, and John kicked the pot which lay overturned beside the mound spaghetti and peas on the kitchen floor.

“John?”

John nearly jumped out of his skin, then he flushed with embarrassment.

“Sorry, Greg. I am not managing as well as I’d like with the sling.”

“Let me lend a hand.”

“Thanks. Broom’s over there. Here’s a rag and a sponge.”

Lestrade set to work cleaning up the mess. “Just wanted to see how you were faring.”

“I’m doing better than this makes it seem,” said John. “By the way, Sherlock’s…”

“With Hopkins on the Conk-Singleton forgery case? Yeah, I put him onto that.”

“Thanks for that, too. He was getting restless, which is never a good thing. I’m glad he didn’t see this. I am so bloody tired of takeaway, you know?”

“I do know. What was it?”

“The thing with the peas.”

“Listen, how about I make you my thing with the carrots? We’ll have to pick up a few things at the shops, but if you can wait a bit, I promise it won’t be takeaway.”

John smiled. “Sounds good. Let me text Sherlock.”

“And I’ll text Mycroft.”

* * *

“Uh, Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Aren’t we going in the wrong direction?”

“Slight change of plans. I told Mycroft about your situation.”

“And?”

“And he’s Mycroft and it’s Christmas and you’re in need and Sherlock’s not around, so he’s gone into full,” Lestrade waved his hands as much as the shopping bags allowed, “Dickens mode.”

John snorted. “Dickens? Mycroft? Wow. He’s not a Scrooge?”

“Just the opposite. There will be the thing with the carrots, but,” Lestrade chuckled and shook his head, “he’s working, right now, on the rest of the feast.”

John laughed. “Good thing I’m hungry.”

* * *

“We’re here!” called Lestrade.

“In the kitchen!” called a far-away voice. “Do you come bearing extra garlic?”

“Yes!”

“Good Lord,” said John under his breath as he eyed the massive wreath and garlands of holly and ivy hanging everywhere. He set his one shopping bag down beside Lestrade’s. “It smells great.”

“Yeah, it does. Duck! We are lucky tonight, my friend. Well, make yourself at home. Living room’s through there with the tree and the Christmas village.”

“Christmas village?”

“With a train! The whole works. You’ll have to see it to believe it. I’ll take these things down to him. I know he’s got something warm to drink—”

“Wassail or a toddy, Doctor Watson?” called the voice.

“Wassail sounds great!” called John. “Thank you!”

“Happy Christmas!”

* * *

The remnants of the feast were laid out between them: the squash soup and the toasted rolls, the duck and the crispy potatoes, the green salad and Lestrade’s carrots, which were John admitted very much like his peas and equally praiseworthy.

“…and it’s impossible to think of anything for them!” lamented Lestrade.

“True. I tried to get Sherlock a proper Christmas gift and it failed horribly.” John wiped his mouth for the umpteenth time. “Not only did I not get it, I was outbid, but he figured out what it was!”

“Oh, please tell me what it was,” said Lestrade. “Maybe that’ll give me an idea. Three days before Christmas, and I’m still wracking my brain!”

“The original 1893 edition of Bertillon's _Identification Anthropométrique._ _”_

“An old book?” Lestrade hummed. “Christ, maybe an old book…”

Mycroft appeared in the doorway with a tray. “Does anyone have room for pie?”

Lestrade and John looked at each other and with childlike glee responded,

“Yes!”

“I’m sorry Sherlock missed all this,” said John, when the crumbs had been scraped from his plate and his second cup of coffee had been drunk. “And I’m sorry that you saw my little tantrum, Greg, but if you hadn’t, I probably would’ve spent tonight, at home, alone, feeling angry and sorry for myself. It’s been a magical evening, Mycroft. Thank you both.”

“It’s our pleasure, Doctor Watson,” said Mycroft. “But there’s a bit of magic left. Or at least I hope.”

Lestrade’s head turned. “What?”

“Something you mentioned that you wanted and as you’re so difficult to shop for…”

“ _I’m_ difficult to shop for!” exclaimed Lestrade with mock affrontery.

“…and I think it would be splendid if Doctor Watson enjoyed it, too. If you’ve no plans, that is, Doctor.”

John smiled and shook his head.

“All right. I’ll get the car. Bundle up very warmly.”

Lestrade and John looked at each other and grinned.

“Are you feeling like I’m feeling?” asked Lestrade.

“If it’s like a child at Christmas, then yes!”

* * *

“Look at how thick the snow is on the ground,” said Lestrade.

“We’re supposed to get a heavy fall tomorrow,” said John. “But, yeah, there’s nothing like this where we are.”

“Here we are. Good. Ready to go.”

“Greg! He got you a…”

“I know…”

“…ride in a one-horse open sleigh!”

But Lestrade didn’t hear for he was already running for the horse and cackling with unabashed joy.

* * *

“One more?” suggested Greg.

“Sure!” said John

“I think five is enough,” said Mycroft.

_“Dashing through the snow…”_

“Oh, Lord,” said Mycroft.

“We’re not that bad,” said John.

“I wasn’t referring to your caroling, Doctor Watson. I was referring to that tree and what lies ahead.”

“What lies ahead?” asked Lestrade.

_WHUMP!_

“Argh!”

“Ugh!”

“Sherlock!”

“… _o’er the hills we go, laughing all the way! Ha, ha, ha!_ ” crooned Sherlock. “Did you miss me?”

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft.

“What were you doing in that tree, Sherlock?” asked John.

“Waiting for my cue, of course. _Bells on bobtail ring_ …”

“ _Making spirits bright!_ ” sang Lestrade. “C’mon, Mycroft.”

Mycroft shrugged, then threw his head back.

Four voices rang out.

_“Oh, what fun it is to sing a sleighing song tonight! Oh!”_


	23. Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No good dead goes...
> 
> The prompt is: Nightmare before Christmas.
> 
> Also for DW picture prompt fun Advent Calendar Day 18: [shoveling snow](https://picturepromptfun-mod.dreamwidth.org/file/103490.jpg)

“John, there was a package delivered for you while you were out. I had to sign for it.”

“Yeah, let’s see? Huh. Mrs. Hudson, mind if I step in and see what this is?”

“Certainly, my dear. I’m just fretting over how I’m going to get to my little shed with all this snow.”

“It’s come down rather hard hasn’t it? It was up to my shins. Now, let’s see. What’s this? Bloody hell! It’s a Christmas miracle!”

“What’s that, my dear?”

“This is the very old book I wanted to get Sherlock for Christmas! I was outbid online, but apparently there was some irregularity in the highest bidder’s offer and now it’s mine! What a dream! Oh ho! A present for Sherlock, under the tree, wrapped and everything!”

“Congratulations, my dear.”

“May I keep it here until tomorrow? He’s certain to figure it out otherwise.”

“Of course, the key is always under the mat. I’m off to my sister’s place for the day, but oh, my shed! Oh, well, there’s nothing for it now. Now, don’t forget the Florentines and the shortbread in the oven.”

“You’re too good to us.”

When she’d gone, John mused aloud as he placed the book back in the box.

“This is such a stroke of luck. I ought to do a good turn for someone.” He turned his head and caught sight of the handle of the orange shovel through the back window. “I know! My arm’s getting better. I’ll shovel a path to Mrs. Hudson’s shed for her. Pay it forward, or back, considering all the nice things she does for me and Sherlock.”

He shoved the bundle beneath Mrs. Hudson’s sofa and went upstairs to get bundled up.

* * *

“John!”

John stopped and wiped his brow and looked up and behind him to his tiny bedroom window.

“Sherlock?”

“Ought you to be doing that?”

“Arm’s okay.”

John turned back to his shoveling.

“But John! You really need to stop!”

“I SAID I’M FINE!” roared John.

“BUT IT MIGHT BE A CRIME SCENE!”

“WHAT?!”

“One metre ahead, eleven o’clock. A dead body buried in the snow. Come up here. You can see the outline clearly. I’m calling Lestrade. Then I’m coming down to collect clues, of course. Oh, a dead body in our own back garden! This is a Christmas miracle! It’s a dream!”

“You mean a nightmare!” retorted John, shaking his head.


	24. Jólabókaflóðið

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & John spend Christmas Eve in bed reading books and eating chocolate...until they don't.
> 
> The prompt is: peace.
> 
> Also for the DW picture prompt fun Advent Calendar Day 23: [box of chocolates](https://picturepromptfun-mod.dreamwidth.org/file/104860.jpg).
> 
> Here is the recipe for [Gingerbread Hot Chocolate with Mini Ice Cream Stars.](http://www.waffleandwhisk.com/2017/12/gingerbread-hot-chocolate-with-mini.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wishing all my gentle readers much peace and joy today and in the New Year and, if you observe it, a very Merry Christmas. Thank you for your kindness and encouragement. okapi

“To Jólabókaflóðið,” said John.

“To Jólabókaflóðið,” said Sherlock.

Their mugs clinked.

“I think we should do this every Christmas Eve,” said John. “Exchange books, read in bed, eat—”

“—or drink—” interjected Sherlock before taking a frothy sip.

“—chocolate. It’s a wonderful tradition,” said John. Then he added, “I wonder what other traditions we should adopt from Iceland.”

“You outdid yourself with this,” said Sherlock, raising his mug and then waving it toward the little plate on the bedside table.

“You got me a star, Sherlock. And the note that went with it made me tear up. Gingerbread hot chocolate with mini star ice cream sandwiches is, by comparison, a minor token of my esteem.”

“I’ll never get your limits, John. I didn’t even know you knew how to…”

“Your brother is quite the marvel in the kitchen.”

Sherlock laughed. “He just does it because he likes wearing an apron.”

“Quite possibly. But when he sent me the recipe, he said you’d be delighted with it and you are and so that’s that. You can’t argue with results. Thank you for this book on stars and constellations. You know, you can always look at it if you’re confused, you know, about the solar system because you deleted it, probably to make room for your fascination for mini star ice cream sandwiches…”

John leaned over and pressed his lips to the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder then he nipped at the skin through the silk of Sherlock’s dressing gown and the cotton of his pyjamas.

Sherlock snorted with derision, but his tone was soft and earnest when he spoke.

“The only thing that delights me more than this cocoa and with twee additions is this 1893 Bertillon's _Identification Anthropométrique_ and the fact that you surprised me.”

“Don’t hold me to that every year, Sherlock. It may be a singular phenomenon.”

“Understood. But still.”

“I know. I can hardly believe it myself It’s kind of a Christmas miracle.”

“Indeed.”

John plucked a round chocolate from its compartment in the sparkly teal box that was sitting on the bedside table on his side of the bed. He chewed and swallowed and said,

“I’m sorry the dead body in the back garden didn’t turn out to be a murder after all.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It was a bit of a puzzle. Nice while it lasted.”

And with that, Sherlock and John settled into a long, companionable silence, sitting side by side on Sherlock’s bed, drinking and eating and reading.

Finally, John sighed and closed the book and the box of chocolates and set one atop the other.

He glanced over at Sherlock.

Without meeting his gaze, Sherlock raised his right arm in invitation, and John slotted himself beside Sherlock, leaning against his chest.

“It’s nice, yeah?” said John.

“Yeah.”

John sighed and closed his eyes. “It’s been such a mad month. So many cases. It seemed like every day there was something new. But this is good, too, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“This is peaceful and that’s what this time of year’s supposed to be about, yeah? Peace on earth. Peace at 221B.”

“Mm-mm.”

_BEEP!_

“Oh, God, Sherlock, no! Don’t check it!”

“It can’t be Lestrade. He’s not on tonight. Hopkins. I wonder what it is…”

“Sherlock, it’s Christmas Eve!”

“Very well. I’ll ignore it.”

_BEEP!_

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Sherlock! What about ‘peace at 221B’?”

“What about ‘peace on earth’ which starts with justice?”

John stared.

“John, may I just check it? It’s rude to just ignore her. Or so you always say.”

“You’re certain it’s Hopkins?”

“Fairly certain.”

John sighed. “All right. Check it.”

Sherlock reached for his phone.

“Oh, John…”

“What? It had better be an 11, Sherlock.”

“A body was found tarred and feathered with pheasant-esque plumes and hung in a specimen of the Pyrus genus that is known to bear a certain pomaceous fruit.”

“Oh, dear God. A partridge in a pear tree! On Christmas Eve!”

“Precisely, John!”

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" John threw off the bedclothes. “We’ve got to go!”

Sherlock leaned over the bed and grabbed John’s head in two hands and kissed him hard on the lips.

“I love you, John.”

“I know. Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Happy Christmas, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
